Fifty-two. That’s my number. I’m twenty-five and have been sexually active for nine years. That averages about 5.8 men a year. When you factor in my one three-year committed relationship, that makes it about 8.5, many of which were one-night-stands. What can I say? I’m a slut and I thoroughly enjoy it.

It all started when I was sixteen. I met my first real boyfriend at a keg party at a house he shared with about five other guys. Believe it or not, at this point in my life I was the last of my friends to get laid. The pressure was on. People are lying when they say your first time should be special. Although it was random, sweaty, and totally meaningless, I loved it. I loved the actual feeling of a man (well, he was a boy, but I didn’t think so then) touching every crevice of my body. My one three-year relationship ensued, ending with him sending naked pictures to my mom and trying to sleep with my underage sister.

When that train wreck ended, I thanked God I wasn’t pregnant, and I started casually dating. There was a chubby guy who was so horrible at kissing I told him I didn’t like to make out. I guess he just thought I was weird. When I stopped him in the middle of sex because it was so bad, he spread a rumor that I gave him an STD. After that I made sure to tell him how much I actually love to make out.

After that was a guy I didn’t realize was gay at the time. He has since caught herpes and is a male stripper. His best friend wasn’t the next guy I slept with, but about a year later we briefly dated. I don’t mean to be shallow, but there are some things I just can’t do. This guy had enormous bumps all over his back and a micropenis, so I broke up with him by telling him my bestie and I were lesbian lovers. It was immature, but it got the job done. Shortly thereafter, the “bumpback whale” ran into my friend and I grocery-shopping for dinner together, and not long after he ran into us having dinner together at Outback. It really is a small world.

Then there was a guy of another race I met on MySpace. We had sex on a couch in his garage and I never talked to him again. He was clingy from the beginning.

Then I slept with a guy I met at a head shop. We would smoke out of the hookah in the back and get busy on the couch. It turns out he had a girlfriend who left upon discovering our relationship, and he shot himself in the head. It’s hard to imagine someone ending his life for something so insignificant, but he did. Nobody else knows this, but his last message to me is how I know I’m at least partially responsible. I think he cast a lot of the blame on me for getting caught, but I’ll never know for sure. I try to forget about it.

The next guy is unforgettable to me. He was black and tatted-up and beautiful. He had dark curly hair and a baby face. I slept with him for a year, but since he was too gangsta to actually date me, I had several other flings during that time. I cheated on every boyfriend with him. Honestly, I loved him. He was my first real love and he broke my heart. Toward the end we started exclusively seeing each other but I had a miscarriage and it just ruined everything.

Fast-forward a couple months after that heartbreak. I’m young and obnoxious, so I yell my number to a guy at a stoplight and he actually calls me. This is the worst short-lived relationship of my life. He was a pathological liar, a total disgusting slob, and a wannabe drug dealer. His only redeeming quality was his big penis. We’ll call him Dave. After three months of dating he punched me in the eye during an argument right in front of his best friend. That was the worst black eye I’ve had in my life. His best friend drove me home, and since I’m incredibly spiteful, I dated him shortly after. I had to break up with him because his feet smelled horrible and he was bad in bed.

Dave used to throw a lot of parties and there was one where a guy—let’s call him Mike—got in a fight with Dave, kicked his ass, and stole his weed. Dave considered Mike an arch-nemesis after that ordeal, so of course I had sex with Mike, too.

In between these guys, I still managed to have one-night stands, and God only knows how many I hooked up with but didn’t quite sleep with.

Eventually I got an apartment with my best friend. In that one summer I slept with at least ten guys. I had sex with this guy I had known since I was thirteen. He had a girlfriend so I probably shouldn’t have done it more than once, but he gave me multiple orgasms, so what was I supposed to do? I attempted to have sex with my neighbor, but, unfortunately, he couldn’t get it up. That was my first experience with erectile dysfunction. I also had my first experience taking someone’s virginity that summer, and that guy is actually my best friend now. He’s probably the one I should be with, but monogamy is for the birds. I had sex with guys I don’t even remember that summer because I was so drunk. I should probably mention that I had just turned twenty-one.

I’ve met guys off Craigslist, I’ve met guys at bars and have given them fake names, I’ve met strangers at hotel rooms—you name it and I’ve probably done it.

At the moment I’m involved with several men. One of them is the same guy I met in high school. He gave me multiple orgasms then and he gives them to me now. He’s engaged, but I’m not the type of girl to turn down a man who is so incredibly talented with his tongue.

As insensitive as it sounds, she’s his problem. Life isn’t a fairy tale, it’s real, it’s harsh, and I have needs that he satisfies. It’s like a business transaction to me. I’m not oblivious to the way people think of me; I just truly don’t care. I do it for several reasons, none of which I apologize for.

The first reason is the power. After spending my younger years hopelessly waiting for guys to call me back and experiencing the harsh reality of being used for sex, I realized how liberating it was to have sex with someone I never intended to speak to again. You can do what you want and say what you want because even if they judge you, who cares? You never have to see them again. It doesn’t even matter if they like me as long as they give me an orgasm.

I also enjoy variety. There are so many different and ridiculously attractive guys out there, each with something to offer. I have slept with many races, with many different body types, and with many vastly different personalities. I truly love the thrill of adding another notch to my belt, whether it’s a clean-cut frat boy or a foreign guy with tan skin and a sexy accent. I like them all. Some of the best sex I’ve had has been with taken men.

I’m also a fan of physical satisfaction. I love feeling his mouth on my nipples, kissing my body, licking me everywhere. I want his hands on my hips, pulling my hair, or holding me close. I love watching a man’s face when he climaxes just as much as I love watching his face when I climax. Unlike most of my lady friends I’ve talked to, I have an orgasm nearly every time I have sex. Maybe that’s another reason I enjoy short-term flings; they’ve always satisfied me.

There’s also the curiosity factor. If he’s a good kisser, I wonder what he’s like in bed. If he looks good with his clothes on, I want to see what’s underneath. I fantasize about what he will do to me when we’re alone. I’m like a young Blanche Devereaux—or maybe Samantha Jones, if I really want to give myself a compliment.

Perhaps I have some issue that has made me such a fan of detached physical relationships. I judge the men I sleep with on appearance and skills in the bedroom only. It’s a very shallow way to live, but it gets the job done. They don’t exactly seem to mind, either. I don’t feel a need to be emotionally connected to my lovers.

There’s just something about a short-lived romance. I love being pleasantly surprised with a man who is an amazing lover. And I love the novelty of a new man and the way he appreciates my body. I love knowing his fetishes and quirks in bed. I love being the one that leaves right after sex and gives a lame excuse to explain why I can’t spend the night. I don’t even care when they don’t believe it. I love it. I’m a slut, and I thoroughly enjoy it.